This morning I was bewildered; I scarcely heard what he said; his words seemed to me useless, and I remained indifferent; they glided away like those drops of rain off the window-panes of my cell. Nevertheless, when he came just now to my room, his appearance did me good. Amongst all mankind he is the only one who is still a brother for me, I reflected; and I felt an ardent thirst for good and consoling words. When he was seated on the chair, and I on the bed, he said to me,-- “My son,--” This word opened my heart. He continued: “My son, do you believe in God?” “Oh, yes, Father!” I answered him. “Do you believe in the holy Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church?” “Willingly,” said I. “My son,” returned he, “you have an air of doubt.” Then he began to speak. He spoke a long time; he uttered a quantity of words. Then, when he had finished, he rose, and looked at me for the first time since the beginning of his discourse, and said “Well?” I protest I had listened to him with avidity at first, then with attention, then with consideration. I also rose and said, “Sir, leave me for a time, I beg of you.” He asked, “When shall I return.” “I will let you know, Sir.” Then he withdrew in silence, but shaking his head as though inwardly exclaiming, “An Unbeliever.” No! low as I have fallen, I am _not_ an unbeliever. God is my witness that I believe in Him. But how did that old man address me? Nothing to be felt, nothing to affect me, nothing to draw forth tears, nothing which sprung from his heart to enter into mine,--nothing which was addressed from himself to myself. On the contrary, there was something vague, inaccentuated, applicable to any case and to none in particular: emphatic where it should have been profound, flat where it ought to have been simple; a species of sentimental sermon and theological elegy. Now and then a quotation in Latin; here and there the names of Saint Augustine and Saint Gregory, and others of the Calendar. And throughout he had the air of reciting a lesson which he had already twenty times repeated; seeming to go over a theme almost obliterated in his memory from being so long known; but not one look in his eyes, not one accent in his voice, to indicate that _he_ was interested! And how could it be otherwise? This Priest is the head Chaplain of the Prison; his calling is to console and exhort,--that is, he lives by it. Condemned felons are the spring of his eloquence; he receives their confession, and prays with them, because he keeps his place by it. He has advanced in years in conducting men to death from his youth, he has grown accustomed to that which makes others shudder. The dungeon and scaffold are every-day matters with him. He receives notice the preceding evening that he will have to attend some one the following day, at a certain hour. He asks, “Is it for the Galleys or an execution?” and he asks no more respecting them, but comes next day as a matter of course.